The Hunt is On

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"Michel, you should go to the doctor. This is something serious!" Pauline Deslys was concerned, her husband, Michel Masson had started vomiting two days ago. Now he was vomiting blood.

"Alright, bring the car around, I think I can make it down the stairs by myself."

"No, sit here, I will go get Charles to help you down to the street."

As his wife left to get their next door neighbor, Masson sat quietly. In truth he felt terrible, fatigued, nauseated, then the vomiting started. Now there was the blood. He thought at first that it was some bug he'd caught from a coworker. But the blood, that was serious. He was supposed to work tomorrow, a ship was coming in from Turkey. The way he felt now, he didn't care if he missed work.

Three days ago Masson had been with his crew, unloading a ship from Georgia, port of origin was Batumi. He had no idea where that was. As Idris Morceli, his forklift operator was maneuvering a large crate with odd markings from the dock to a shipping container, he'd hit a pothole, which they'd been complaining about for months. The crate had slipped from the forks and hit the concrete hard.

Masson had gone up to the crate, to see what the damage was. He'd noticed the odd markings on the box -

სასოფლო-სამეურნეო ტექნიკა

Сельскохозяйственное оборудование

Tarım Ekipmanları

Attrezzature agricole

Equipement agricole

The last one he recognized, "Huh, agricultural equipment, what was it, a tractor?" he speculated. Crate wasn't big enough for that, whatever it was, it was damned heavy.

He looked it over, the wood was cracked on one corner, but not badly. He signaled Morceli to get it back on the forklift and load it in the shipping container. As the man did so, Masson stayed close to the container, to make sure nothing else adverse happened.

He pulled his collar away from his neck, funny how it seemed hot right now. He wondered if he was coming down with something.

Though the damage to the crate wasn't that bad, the equipment inside had been badly damaged. The body of the machine had cracked when it had stopped abruptly when the crate hit the ground. Though the rigging inside the crate was more than sufficient for most heavy machinery, this machine was old.

It had sat for years in a poorly maintained storage bunker not far from Tashkent. Standing water was present in the bunker when the men had broken in to steal anything they could find which might be valuable. They were disgusted at not finding any Kalashnikovs or RPGs, what sort of weapons bunker was this?

They had left, leaving the doors partially open. More water had gotten in, causing the machine to rust in spots. Not badly, easily cleaned up. At least that's what the corrupt Uzbeki officer had thought. When he'd been contacted by people looking for Soviet-era weaponry, he brought them to the bunker.

A couple of weeks later, a big truck with its own forklift had shown up to haul out two of the machines. He had been promised a rather large payout by the Russian gangsters he did business with.

He never had the chance to spend much of his money, the Uzbeki had been killed in a motorcycle crash not too long after the Russians had moved the machines. He thought they were probably nuclear weapons, he didn't know, he didn't care. But the colleague he'd mentioned that to cared very much. Enough to report the man.

Realizing the can of worms which would be opened by an investigation into this, the local authorities decided that the officer knew too much. He had been riding his brand new motorcycle when he'd been clipped by a dump track. It was, so the local police said, an unfortunate accident.

The crate had been loaded into a shipping container which had been loaded on a train. Now the container sat deep in the marshaling yards at Marseille, awaiting transport to its final destination.

Paris.

John Nakagawa had been expecting the phone call, once again Ephraim Johansen was proving his worth over at CIA. The man had contacts everywhere it seemed, including one inside the cabal operating out of Zürich. It never ceased to amaze Nakagawa how evil organizations tended to attract people who had trust issues, it was a weakness that could be exploited.

"Good afternoon, Gospodin Prezident Ryzhov. How are you today?"

"I am well, President Nakagawa. I've been led to understand that we have a mutual problem in Zürich."

"Yes, Gospodin Prezident, I'm glad you see it as a mutual problem, so what I ..."

"Mr. President, we are both warriors who left parts of ourselves on battlefields of other people's makings. Please call me, Maksim."

Bill Aspinall quickly scribbled something on a piece of paper and showed it to the President. Nakagawa nodded, he knew of the Russian custom of using the first name and the patronymic to honor family connections.

"Please, Maksim Vladimirovich, call me John, with the world in danger, I see no need to stand on formalities."

"I agree, John Timofeyevich."

Nakagawa was impressed that the Russians had done their research on him, his father's name was Timothy. But there was business to attend to, so he got down to it.

"What are your intentions towards those people in Switzerland, Maksim?"

"I intend to eliminate them, to put it bluntly, John."

"Do you know that the Italians intercepted a Soviet-era nuclear weapon in the Mediterranean some weeks back? Did you know the smuggler indicated that there was more than one?"

There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally President Ryzhov spoke, "I did not know that, John. Do you have any idea where that other weapon might be? If there truly is a second weapon."

"No, not exactly, we think it was bound for France, perhaps the United Kingdom, but beyond that ..."

"John, we know where the weapon might be going."

"You do? Where?"

"Paris."

After the call ended, Nakagawa sat quietly, tapping his fingers on his desk. Aspinall said nothing, letting the President work things over in his mind. Finally, the President sat up. He hit a button on his intercom.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Nancy, can you track down Jason Howard for me?"

"Certainly, Sir."

Aspinall sat quietly, if the President was calling in Howard, he had something in mind. Something rather violent, Aspinall assumed.

The President's phone buzzed, he picked it up, "Jason, how do you feel about taking a trip?"

"I'm always ready to travel, Mr. President. Can I bring some friends?"

"Of course, they'll probably enjoy the trip as well."

"Where are we going, Mr. President?"

"France."

"Nice, any place in particular?"

"We can talk about that, can you swing by the White House?"

"On my way, Sir."

"Bring your friends."

"I will."

Finally Aspinall spoke, "Howard and his crew? Things are pretty serious if you're bringing them in."

"Yeah, things are that serious. Do you have any contacts in the French security agency, what's it called?"

"The DGSE, Sir, the Direction générale de la Sécurité extérieure. Yes, I know a couple of guys in that outfit. Know a few guys in the French military as well."

"Do you trust them?"

"The DGSE guys? Sort of. The military guys? With my life."

"Good we'll need to bring them in on this. After all, it is their country at risk."

Aspinall nodded, "The French know how to play hardball when push comes to shove. Think the Russians might let us talk to one of those assholes in Zürich?"

"They might, for now though, let's get the French side of things rolling."

"Yes Sir."

Nuclear weapons, the President thought, why does some fanatic always think of using those to make a point?